


Sweet Reunion

by AParisianShakespearean



Series: Dreams [18]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Confident Cullen, Cullen Smut, Cunnilingus, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Smut, Spanking, angsty smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28172487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: He pet on her and loved on her gently earlier. She was done with that. Months from him left her aching, pining, numb. She wanted to be fucked, filled, wanted to remember she was a woman and not an unbreakable symbol. Hard she wanted him, and she didn’t care if it hurt.He could never hurt her.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Series: Dreams [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/866925
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Sweet Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a modified version of a later scene of my longfic In Waking Dreams. I was feeling a certain way (cough) and wanted to write ahead to this moment. Can be read on it's own, but if you follow the longfic this scene may seem familiar (if altered slightly as I did remove some major spoilers.)

Often they reunited in the stables. Though always sweaty and disheveled from riding he always cared not, kissing her in hello and sometimes lifting her feet from the ground in front of their audience of horses and companions who enjoyed the sight of a sweet reunion between two joyful, miscreant lovers. Yet their reunion this time, after three months parted, happened in her room. Better to fall apart in her room and in his arms where no one else could see. Better to fall apart for only Cullen, not even the Commander.

She wept, Maker she wept. She thought parting would be easier the more often she did it. It wasn’t, and with each new journey her frustration mounted. It was always something, whether it be in the Plains or the Graves, a new discovery far in Orlais that only the Inquisitor would deign to handle. It was dark where she was, far away from Skyhold and far away from him in Orlais. Letters only went so far. She craved for him, ached and pined, her memories not enough, her hand not enough alone in her tent. He beckoned her to quiet as he held her, his body gently rocking her as he stroked her hair, let her cry. Maker, he cried too–she felt the tears fall softly against her hair.

He took her to bed, kissed away the tears. “I was so scared,” she said, her ear pressed against his bare chest, his beating heart. “Cullen, I was so scared.” She shouldn’t have been and she knew it, she was the Inquisitor, so she didn’t show it. She kept herself hidden at night, alone with her thoughts. Reunited, she feared she kissed him too hard, held him too tightly. He cradled her, would spend hours reminding her she was home, she was safe. She slept.

She often woke him up from a nightmare. New it was, to have him wake her. She thrashed and she shrieked underneath her luxurious blanket until he threw it off, held her face in his hands. “You’re home,” he promised, amber eyes heavy. “You’re safe.” He kissed the tears that feel from her eyes, her lips. She was drowning, drowning…

He pet on her and loved on her gently earlier. She was done with that. Months from him left her aching, pining, numb. She wanted to be fucked, filled, wanted to remember she was a woman and not an unbreakable symbol. Hard she wanted him, and she didn’t care if it hurt.

He could never hurt her.

Cullen littered every part of her face and neck with kisses and gentle bites that wouldn’t leave marks, laving them over with his tongue. Mark me she wanted to say but couldn’t say, mark me, fuck me and fuck me harder still.

She tugged clumsily at the strings of his breeches, and he helped her, pulling them off and tossing them to the side. He grabbed her silken shift and she helped him toss it off. She rubbed the tip of his cock as they kissed, Cullen hissing, groaning. She laid herself down for him, let him fuck her with his eyes, that naked portrait she had commissioned of herself in a moment of sweet rebellion against what they thought of her come to life. He drank her, consumed her. He fucked her with his heavy, amber eyes. He painted her, his hand tracing her body’s curves, her stomach with the scar there, given during Haven’s assault. More, she needed. She laid flat on her belly, hands gripping the pillow, her legs spreading. She heard his heavy breathing, felt the roughhewn hands she loved so much knead her sore back. Her arousal pooled, leaked against the sheets. He called her name, stroked her sore back as he hovered over her, his cock against her cheeks, too teasing. He asked if this was what she wanted, like this.

“Yes,” she said, her face pressed inside the pillow, a strangled breath. “Fuck me hard.”

“ _Lyd_.”

Was he so romantic to want to look into her eyes during their reunion coupling? Of course he was–it was romantic Cullen, knightly Cullen. But there would be other times for that, when they woke in the morning or when they were blessed a week without leaving or going. She wanted Commander Cullen, rough Cullen. So she rose to her knees. With one slow yet unrelenting thrust, his arousal too much, she too much, he pressed deep inside, his hand making red marks on her cheeks. How she didn’t care, how she wanted more. On her knees she rose further, her back meeting the front of his body and reaching behind to grab and tug at his hair, Cullen leaving searing kisses against her mouth as his hand wrapped around her middle. His nose pressed into her hair, his breath fell down her neck and shoulder as he took in her scent—that scent of jasmine and rose and sun and fire. He sank his teeth into the deep of her neck, made her cry out. It was all sound and full feel—the sound of his cock and her slick arousal, and their moans an unholy, indecent, melodious song. He licked a line down her neck to her shoulder, rubbed at her clit, all delicious electricity. He told her to come for him, and she wailed, more and more until he pressed harder and turned her boneless. She came an with unholy shrieks of his name, dissolving against him, reeling and swimming, his cock still buried inside. He cried out, and she whimpered when she was no longer full with his cock but with him pressed against her cheeks, warm and slick with her arousal. He laid them down, Lydia on her stomach as she was earlier, his body pressed atop her, blanketing her. He grabbed her hand, squeezed and interlocked their fingers. She mewled, more. He obeyed, his knee imparting her to spread for him. Filled again, inside her again, he moved her along the current and sea, wrapping an arm underneath her, sheltering her.

“I was alone,” she muttered, weeping still. How she thought she was done, but bow she crawled and craved stings of pain mingled with pleasure alone in the dark. “Cullen I was so alone…”

His hands were clumsy, pulling her hair away from her face. He kissed her cheek, her lips, called her dearest, love, moving his hips as she pulled her leg up, allowing him a deeper, fuller encasing. Vaguely she could see them in her full length mirror—his body atop her, her body pressed into the sheets, dissolving. He tempered his want for further wildness—she could see it in his eyes, feel it in his desperate kisses, feel it in his quivering hips.

“Spank me.”

She never suspected, to say it like that, during this. She talked about it to him before, how she wanted his hands like that. Why they reframed, why she always told him another time before, she couldn’t say. And yet now when they were making up for lost time, she had said it and she realized she wanted nothing more.

He froze, removing himself from her, and he wanted to scream. “Cullen. Spank me,” she ordered. “Spank me now.”

“Lydia…”

Her knuckles went pale as she fisted the sheet underneath her. “I want your hands.”

He said nothing. She saw him in the mirror, his cock erect, his cheeks rosy and hair mused, his eyes contemplative. I will be tender later, she silently pled when their eyes met. Rough now.

“I asked for it,” she cried again, Cullen still hovering over her with one leg pressed between hers. “I asked for it. I want your hands. I couldn’t cry, be wounded or anything away. Let me feel. Let me… _ah!”_

She had buried her face in the pillow, did not see his hand rise and then strike. She cried out as his hand hit her flesh—the juncture between her cheek and thigh. Not hard, he didn’t hit hard, and she wept not from the pain, but her cups that had long been too overfull. She felt the hesitation, his hand ghosting over, considering it again.

“Lydia…”

“Please,” she begged. “It feels good… _ah…_ ”

He rubbed gently in small circles, leaned down, kissed her lower back and rubbed his beard against her skin as if to ask for premeditative forgiveness until his palm slapped against her ass, and then again, and again until he rubbed at the spot. He continued the motions, the dance, first rubbing to dull the pain before slapping the flesh again. Maker she drenched the sheets, she loved the sound of their fleshes meeting from the loud clap, she wept from the sting but mostly something else. They were all the tears she never shed, alone as she was at night, aching, mourning. Then he brought her to her back…were those tears in his eyes? And he leaned down, kissed her gently, touched her gently. Yes. They were tears.

“No,” he said, his cock between her thighs. “I never want you to cry. I—"

“I wanted you to,” she said, tears streaming down her face to her neck. “It felt good.”

“Then why are you crying?”

He wiped them away. “I was alone,” she said.

“I’m here now. I’m here and…”

He was inside and she wrapped her legs around him. She kissed him and he cried out, his end nigh. But she placed her hands on his chest, a silent wait, and she laid him against the bed as he did to her earlier, drew her hand down his body, and took him in her mouth. Hardly she did this—he preferred to be inside, he preferred to give her his mouth, yet she wanted his taste and his fullness in her warm and welcoming mouth, and she wanted to see him flushed and rosy as he bit his lip, moans unstrained. Jerking his hips upward, his hands threading, tangling her hair, he came in her mouth. Too greedy, she took it all, tasted all. She kissed his hips after, his abdomen with the coarse, golden hair. He beckoned for her and she came to him, laying between his legs, her breasts pressed against his chest, and was it unholy, unseemly, for him to rub away the traces of him on her lips, parting her mouth with his thumb, she then sucking on it as she did his cock? He held her, set her down beside him, and vaguely she felt the wet spot from earlier, both moments and a lifetime ago. Their skins were one, they were together, he kissed away the last remnants of tears. He dragged his mouth down her body to her thighs to the dark hair between, spread her thighs with his hands and inhaled her scent of musk and salt. His eyes never left her as his tongue darted against her clit, lapped gently inside her. She came with his eyes watching her, with the rush of the sea and bed of the river. He held her again as she drifted, her hands wandering his body, dissolving, sliding away back to the sea.

“Sleep,” he asked of her when he laid by her side, kissing her closed eyes. “You’re home. I’m here.”

“I am never parting from you again.”

She knew it, he knew it. It couldn’t be their promise, not yet. Someday, she would have to part from him. And yet for that moment, they lived in the imagined world were this moment was their last, sweet reunion after too long apart.


End file.
